


roman!

by Anonymous



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Crack Treated Seriously, Drunk Sex, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Making Out, Real names used, Sexual Content, This Is STUPID, best friends dream and sapnap, idk it's not smut but it's close, wtf is this "plot" you speak of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29109042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Clay and Nick bet $100 on being the first to sleep with George. Needless to say, it doesn’t exactly go to plan…
Relationships: Clay | Dream/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 182
Collections: Anonymous





	roman!

“Clay!” 

Clay is rudely awakened by the elbow jabbed into his ribs. “Whusgoingon?” He says eloquently, words tipping together because his tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. If he thinks about it too hard, he can taste vodka at the back of his throat, clinical and unpleasant. He stops thinking about it. 

His neck kills, held at an awkward angle for god knows how long. He reaches up to massage it, and moans aloud as his muscles untense. When his eyes slide open, he realises Nick is staring at him, empty red cup abandoned in his lap. _“What?”_ Clay adds in an eye-roll to get his point across. 

“Clay, you dumbass. George just got here.” 

Nick’s eyes flash under the shitty coloured lights. He’s not sure who decided it’d be a good idea to turn the basement into a sixth grade disco, the alternating flares of red and green making his head spin until the faces around him are barely distinguishable. Whoever the house belongs to must own a subwoofer, because Clay can barely hear himself think over the pounding music. 

Oh. 

George is the cute international student on their compsci course. Notably, he seems incapable of turning up to class in anything other than oversized hoodies which cover his palms and hair that sticks up at the back like he’s just rolled out of bed. Clay wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the truth, 9ams can fully suck his dick. George also seems to be inexplicably older than mostly everyone Clay knows, providing some reason about gap years and work experience abroad whenever he’s prompted to explain. He’s not sure. It’s virtually impossible to listen to George’s accent for more than two seconds without zoning out, he swears. 

And most importantly, him and Nick have bet $100 on being the one to fuck him first. Which, considering they're broke college students, is a lot. Clay remembers this rather belatedly, when Nick’s already clambered off the decrepit couch and is halfway across the room towards where George stands. Fucking hell. 

Clay stares into his vodka monster for a few seconds, debating whether or not to bring it with him. He shrugs. Tips whatever’s left in the cup into his mouth and cringes as the overpowering taste of sugar sweeps over his tongue. The cup arcs towards the floor when he tosses it.

“Nick!” He slings a lazy arm over Nick’s shoulder, hand trailing to fiddle with the end of his sleeve. _“Please_ tell me more about your inability to shit after noon. That was a conversation I was really enjoying. Oh, hey George.” He pretends to suddenly notice George’s presence. A hand lifts in greeting. He hopes it looks nonchalant. 

Without looking, he can tell Nick is glaring at him. "Really? Last I recall we were discussing the importance of blue pills in your incredibly long term relationship-" 

Nick is cut off as Clay kicks him in the shin, perhaps not as subtly as he'd thought when George's gaze flickers towards the motion. He clears his throat. "My dick is perfectly functional," he says before it dawns on him he's standing in someone's basement with an arm around his roommate and the guy they're both trying to have sex with looking at them with barely disguised amusement. "And there's no relationship. None. These facts are completely unrelated to anything, before you ask." 

"I wasn't," George says, a smile obscured by his cup. Fuck, did his accent always sound that good, or is Clay just more drunk than usual? He thinks his knees lose feeling for a second. "Going to ask, that is." 

“You can ask about mine,” Nick says unhelpfully. 

George’s nose wrinkles. It makes his freckles bunch up into miniature constellations, and Clay thinks he’s in love. Or drunk. He’s probably drunk. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m good.” 

His face disappears for a moment as he drinks, and Clay is suddenly incredibly distracted by the way his throat bobs, pale skin flexing with the motion. When he pulls the cup away, his lips shine with wetness, red and bitten. 

“Are you interested in philosophical discussions?” Clay isn’t sure where Nick is going with this, or how it’s going to end with him securing the $100. 

“I’m a compsci major.” 

Nick falters. “Well yeah, but so am I, and I’m the one asking.” 

“Fine, I’ll bite,” George says. Clay begins to feel a little sorry for him, cornered by the two of them like this. 

“Okay, so hypothetically speaking-” 

“Something tells me this isn’t hypothetical.” George has his arms crossed over his chest now, and he’s somehow managing to look intimidating despite being literal inches shorter than Clay. His eyes are iced over. 

_“Hypothetically speaking,_ would you rather fuck me or Clay?” Clay fights the urge to slam his head into the wall in the hopes of knocking himself out. Nick is actually going to give him an aneurysm this time. And he definitely can’t afford the hospital bill. 

George blinks. “Um, pass?” 

“That’s not a real answer-” 

“George!” Someone calls from across the room. The guy is tall, taller than Clay, but he can’t quite match a name to the face. He’s also holding a blunt, waving it haphazardly through the air to grab George’s attention. “We’re all outside, where the fuck have you been?” 

“I’m coming,” George says, smile finally tugging onto his face as the guy disappears up the basement steps. The sight of it should make Clay’s chest flutter, but instead he’s just reminded they’re the ones who removed it in the first place. His stomach sinks like a rock through water. “I’m sorry, by the way. It’s just, I came here to smoke, and not…” 

“Yeah, I get it man,” Clay flashes a smile at him. “Nick’s just an idiot.” 

“I’m _not.”_

George raises an eyebrow as he sets his cup down and angles his body towards the stairs. “I’ll see you in class, I guess,” he says, the end tilting up like a question. 

They watch with solemn faces as George jogs up the stairs, dumb white soles flashing even in the lowlight. 

“That sucks,” Nick breaks the silence. 

Clay fights the overpowering urge to roll his eyes, then remembers they’re in a mostly darkened basement, and does it anyway. “You’re literally the one who made it weird, shut the fuck up,” he bites. He can’t tell if he’s genuinely mad, or horny, or both. 

“Nuh-uh, that was you coming over here to talk about literal shit.” Nick is glaring at him now, face illuminated by blue and pink. 

“Oh come on, it wasn’t as bad as the viagra thing.” 

“I only had to bring it up because of your dumb ass,” Nick says. 

They stare at each other, atmosphere practically fizzing with competitive hotheadedness. Nick’s jaw is clenched, a tendon popping out of his neck. Clay finds his vision flicking down to it, tracing over the skin left exposed. When he looks up, Nick is blinking more rapidly than usual, and his brows push together. “Done eyefucking me?” 

“Please, you w-” 

And he’s silenced by lips upon his own, pressing so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t bruise. Clay’s eyes widen before snapping shut, so the pulsating colours emitted by the tacky lighting rig are effectively blocked out. He’s plunged into pleasant darkness in one fell swoop, world narrowing down to _lips_ and _hands._

Nick tastes distinctly of the monster Karl had provided them with, but Clay’s sure his own tongue isn’t any less saccharine. It’s difficult to breathe, as Nick pushes him against the wall, pressing closer and closer until he’s not sure where the line defining their limbs is. Their teeth click together painfully, but Clay thinks they’re both too distracted to care much about it. Warm fingers creep up under his shirt, before squeezing hard enough to mark. Nick’s tongue is definitely in his mouth now, and he finds he doesn’t mind in the slightest. His jeans are becoming uncomfortable. 

He wonders if Nick is imagining he’s George right now. Imagining his skin to be paler, stature shorter and hair darker as he tugs at it. Selfishly, he prays he’s not. 

“What the _fuck?”_ His voice sounds laboured when he pulls away to breathe. 

Seemingly Nick doesn’t appreciate the conversation break, because he knocks Clay’s head to one side and attaches his mouth to the triangle of skin beneath his jaw. Clay can’t stop the sound that spills from his lips as teeth graze his neck, toeing the line between pain and pleasure. It’s embarrassingly loud, even swallowed by the music pumping through the basement. 

He pushes desperately at Nick’s chest. “There’s- bathroom,” his lungs fight to regain a regular cadence. “There’s literally a bathroom about five metres from us.” 

“It’s up the stairs,” Nick whines. 

“You literally play football for fun, you can cope with the fucking stairs.” 

Ironically, the stairs turn out to be far more challenging than Clay was presuming. His head spins as he picks his way over empty beer cans and discarded plastic cups, feet all out of sync with his mind. It’s difficult to make his limbs cooperate when the alcohol is working its magic and spreading a familiar wooziness through his veins. Clay only has two things on his mind right now: orgasm closely followed by sleep. 

He narrowly avoids face planting onto the concrete as he tackles the stairs, only stopped by Nick’s hand fisted at the back of his shirt. 

“No need to thank me. You know, for the unbroken nose.” 

“Fuck off,” Clay punctuates by kicking the bathroom door. It remains shut. He can see shadows moving around through the gap at the bottom of the door, indicating it’s very much occupied. He sort of wants to cry because his jeans are starting to fucking _hurt_ and he just wants to get rid of them. His fist connects with the shitty fake wood grain. “Please, we need it more than you do.” 

Nick pulls him away before he escalates this line of thought too much. “What if someone’s like, overdosed in there?” 

“Then they should be in hospital, not the bathroom. We need the bathroom.” 

Then he’s being guided down the hall, circumnavigating the mess of bodies crammed into the narrow space. “I’m just saying, it’d be a little insensitive.” 

“I guess so.” 

Nick is rattling the handles attached to the bedrooms now, which Clay finds kind of oddly exhilarating. It’s like a roulette of what college party happenings they’re going to find within the rooms, except most of them remain firmly locked. Just as he’s starting to give up hope and his mind is drifting back to the cumstain couch in the basement they’d vacated, one of the doors swings open to reveal a blissfully empty room. “Thank god,” he proclaims, before walking in. 

He barely registers the lock clicking before Nick’s pushing him onto the bed and kissing him again. It’s more practiced this time, slower. Their eyes are growing sleepy, but the slide of their tongues is electrifying, hands wandering everywhere as though to test each other. 

Clay pulls away as something looms in his periphery. 

“Dude, that setup is jacked,” he says. 

Nick’s head whips around to look at the PC sat next to the bed, taking in the triple monitors and the overpowered CPU. Then he seems to realise his makeout session has been interrupted by a fucking computer, of all things, and turns back to glare at Clay. It honestly sends chills over his skin. “Please tell me you didn't just say that, and I’m drunk enough to have imagined it.” 

He just smiles. 

His face drops when Nick palms the hardness in his jeans, eyes flying shut as a moan bubbles out of him. It’s embarrassing, really, how easily his hips cant upwards to grind into it. He feels like a horny teenager with all his clothes on, bottom lip seized between his teeth. “Give me more warning next time?” 

“Stop being a nerd then,” Nick says before leaning forward to reattach their lips. 

George is so far out of his mind at this point he might as well not exist, pretty eyes and prettier mouth forgotten in lieu of his best-friend-slash-roomate. And now whatever the fuck this is. Clay moans as his shirt is shoved up to his chin, cold air unpleasant as it collides with his torso. “Literally suck me off.” 

Nick stills. “Is that one of those things you say because you pretend to hate me, or do you actually want me to do it?” 

His lips are swollen, and they sheen under the blue light cast by the bedside lamp. This is all so ridiculous, that they’re in here because they both got rejected by the guy they were trying to fuck, and Clay can only see what he’s doing because of a damn lava lamp. His mind is addled with spirits, swirling in lazy circles as he tries and fails to grip to some semblance of reality. Nick smells of alcohol and artificial flavouring. He wonders what those lips would look like wrapped around his cock. The thought of it makes his breath stutter, rushing out of his lungs in a barely stifled groan. 

“Do it,” he dares, jaw tensed. 

“Fuck.” Nick sits up, eyes bleary and hair mussed to hell and back. “Fucking _hell_ Clay, you’re unbelievable.” 

It’s awkward as they struggle out of their clothes, fabric tangling in their haste to discard the offending articles. He briefly worries about finding his shirt when he pulls it off and tosses it somewhere on the other side of the room, but then Nick is kissing him again and all he can think about is how their breath mingles, hot and heavy. 

Every sober thought he’s managed to retain flies out the goddamn window when Nick starts trailing kisses down his chest, over the soft skin above his hips. He leaves a plethora of faint marks in his wake, marks which are sure to blossom into full colour come morning. Clay’s fingers push into his hair, knotting tight to pull so hard it’s gotta hurt. “Why didn't we do this sooner?” He asks, breathless. 

“I don’t know, maybe because you don’t fucking shut up,” Nick says, before sucking at his tip. 

Fuck, Clay thinks when he begins to hollow his cheeks. This is literally the last possible way in which he expected his night to end. He’s definitely not mad about it. 

“Who gets the $100?” 

Nick’s head is cradled upon his chest, cheek sticking because they’re both covered in perspiration. “Last I checked, neither of us have had sex George yet.” Clay doesn’t need to see his face to know his eyes are rolled skywards. 

“Weird. I don’t really want to anymore.” 

His vision swims as Nick props himself up with both elbows. There are marks covering his neck, trailing across his collarbones and encompassing his torso. Clay knows he’s in exactly the same state. Crescent shaped lines are dotted over his palms, and his bottom lip has split down the middle. “Me neither. I guess we keep the stupid money.” 

They’re interrupted as the door flies open. The handle bangs against the opposite wall, adding a new dent to the pre-existing collection. 

“Huh. I swear I locked that,” Nick muses. Neither of them particularly seem to care that they're ass naked. 

“The lock doesn’t work,” a sickeningly familiar voice says. 

Clay swears he’s hallucinating, because George stands in the doorway with light haloed around his form. “Wait, this is _your_ place?” He asks, disbelief dripping from his tone. Nick seems to finally notice their state of undress and yanks a pillow over them. Of course, it does just about nothing, but it’s the thought that counts. 

“So observant of you, Clay.” George walks into the room. 

They stare at him as he tugs the bedside drawer open and sticks a hand in to rummage around. He straightens up a moment later, triumphant, with a cigarette tin in his hand. “Nice setup, by the way.” Clay is going to kill Nick as soon as they’re home. 

George raises an eyebrow. Clay is genuinely impressed he’s keeping his composure so well. 

“Well, I’m glad you’ve resolved your dumb rivalry, even if I have to burn my sheets now,” he says. “But I’ll take the $100 for the trouble.” 

“You know about the bet?” Nick sounds horrified. 

George actually laughs at that, and a hand flies up to cover his mouth. “I was literally sitting behind you in a 9am when you made it, of course I know.” 

“You weren’t actually asleep on the desk?” 

George is halfway out the door at this point, expression suggesting he’s fed up with this conversation. “You guys are idiots, you know that? And you wonder why I wouldn’t sleep with you.” The door slams behind him, sealing them off from the music playing somewhere in the living room. 

“Plural. We’re idiots, Clay,” Nick grins as he leans forward to drop a kiss upon Clay’s nose like he hasn’t just finished sucking his dick. 

The smile that pulls at the corners of his lips is magnetic, unavoidable. “Guess it’s good we have each other.”

**Author's Note:**

> me, writing this while drunk as fuck: it’s ‘method writing’! :D  
> i’m going to bed, i’ll post this tomorrow so i have time to reconsider my actions
> 
> oh oh also if you are so inclined, please leave kudos, it’s completely free and you can always— actually i’m pretty sure u cant un-kudos but hey, live in the moment IT’S FREE :)


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